


Vulnerable.

by 221Bbakerqueer



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Autistic Meltdown, Autistic Sherlock, Canon Autistic Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, John tries to understand, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, PTSD Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, autistic shutdown, mention of drugs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-10-18 04:40:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10609458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Bbakerqueer/pseuds/221Bbakerqueer
Summary: Sherlock is back after his two years long death. John has moved on and it's something he didn't expect.Life goes on and he tries, god knows he tries, but drugs are cheaper than feelings and words and he just CAN'T cope with the mess in his head.OR autistic!Sherlock has to face the inevitable crumbling of life as he knew it and John doesn't know what went wrong. Mycroft is a good brother.





	1. Melting down.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I think this is going to be a short story, I conceived it to be 2-3 chapters long.  
> Let me know what you think of my works by leaving a comment! Creative criticism is well accepted. 
> 
> Love,   
> Evander.

 

 

He does notice.

 

Everyone knows and seems to be keen to never let go the opportunity to remind him how NOT clever he is, but he notices.

 

The way his skin is paler.

His hands tremble.

 

«John, i need to talk to you.» his voice comes out shaken.

John eyes lift from the diary Sherlock handed him before sprinting in another room of the building they're currently in. His eyes meet Lestrade's ones. «Yes?» he looks to the sides as if trying to confirm he's the only John in the room.

 

The Detective Inspector rubs one finger on his brows, furrowed. «It's...it's about Sherlock.» his words are not sure and his tone is thin and an awkward pause separates his next rambling mess. «Look I know we are not that close to be discussing this but I don't think he's fine. Is he using again? Have you seen how thin he got for god's sake he is so pale i mean-» he cuts himself off scratching his neck and puffing out air and frustration.

 

John, on the other hand, falls from the clouds. «He is?» did Sherlock lose weight? He can't really assure he eats theee meals per day now that he's moved out. «I d-» idn't notice, it's what he almost says, but what kind of friend would say so? He's ashamed and «I don't think he is.» is what comes out next from his mouth.

 

Lestrade looks at him with pity. «Look i know, okay? I know you have move out and you're about to get married and Mary and the surgery and everything but please? Will you just-» his hands flutters in the air, theatrical gesture completing the phrase.

 

«I will. I'm sorry, I will.»

 

 

But he won't. He won't when Sherlock comes back in the room nor when they head back to Baker Street and the taller man asks him if he wants to come upstairs for a cuppa. And he'd really like to stay and drink tea like old times but he promised Mary he'd stay home to help her for the rest of the day and he just can't be late. «I'll just head back home, yeah? My lady needs me.» he attempts a laugh, to bright up the mode. As soon as he lift his eyes, the smile slides off of his face.

 

 

He sees it.

 

There are no gritting teeth. No tight fists. No clenched jaws. Of course, no tears.

Cold red rimmed eyes are boring slowly in his chest, making their way down his veins and bones and sinking to the concrete of the walkway.

 

«Hey, look it's just-another time, alright? Tomorrow! Tomorrow I'll stay and we can have a cuppa and a chat, yeah?» he tries, he tries hard to sound as positive as possible.

 

Sherlock's lips hesitate a little, faint stubble on his upper lip now visible. Sherlock never lets his beard grow. «Yeah, that's...that's fine. Thank you for helping me today. See you tomorrow, John.» the detective force a smile on his mouth but it comes off like a grimace.

 

Dainty hand guides the keys to the door, trembling fingers missing the opening. It takes three times for him to get the key in, shaky breathes of frustration and furrowed brows giving away the struggle and making the point of hiding it useless.

 

John doesn't say anything, though.

 

 

 

She noticed. She does notice every time the flat goes silent. She hears the way the floor stop squeaking under his light weight.

 

She doesn't see him very much. She makes him tea, bring him some food when she suspects he hasn't eaten for days, but that's all she can do. «Sherlock, dear?»

The flat is silent. There is no clattering of glass recipients coming from the kitchen, it's been few weeks since she last heard that. There is no violin, no noises coming from the tv, no smoke of cigarette lingering in the air.

 

Just dust. Dust covering everything, small ovals of fingerprints left here and there, rings of dirty mugs left on the table or on the desk to dry out.

 

 

«Sherlock? I brought you some toast, dear!» it's not like she expects him to trot happily to her, he never was one to show sentimentalism before. But NOW, it is painful. It's painful in the same way her hip hurts her: constantly, silently, keeping her away from the stairs to the upper floor and from the door to go outside. She's afraid of leaving the house, afraid of coming home to an empty flat. Empty flat with a dead body, if she's lucky. Because Sherlock is probably one to simply disappear and die alone where nobody can find him.

 

There's a soft thud coming from his room. Sounds like the headboard of the old bed is hitting the wall in a shaken rhythm. If she didn't knew Sherlock was inside the room, She might have thought about something dirty going on between the four walls. But since IT IS Sherlock, the anxiety is tugging at her stomach, bile running up her throat. «Sherlock, can i come in...?» she barely thouches the door handle that something crush loudly against the door, wood cracking ugly and the thing shattering against it and on the floor.

A whimper escapes her thin lips, hand trying to muffle the many sobs threatening to explode. Her hears register the whimpering and loud shaken breathes coming from inside. Her chest hurts.

 

This is not him. This is not Sherlock using drugs to get hype. This is not him trying to piss her off. It's not him being stubborn over a though case.

 

This is desperation.

 

Depression.

 

Panic.

 

Sadness.

 

 

She wants to shout at John. How could he allow this? He was-is his friend, his doctor and only decent human relationship the younger man ever had.

Why would he leave him in this state?

 

She leaves the tray on the floor, toast gone cold and tea spilled all over.

 

 

 

 

 

He can't stop shaking. His body does not belong to him. He feels so ashamed.

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_.

He is so messed up. Everything is so loud. Why is this happening? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it?

Needle needle needle

fucking needle

need a fix, need a fix.

The crooks of his elbows are tinted in deep blue, purple marks. Half of his forearm is covered with the same kind of bruises, alterning with small circular ones of an angry red tone and yellowish spots. He didn't smoke anymore, but he did throw a full ashtray at the door. Ashes everywhere.

Ashes ashes

ashes

 

he knows ashes, doesn't he? He studied ashes. Ashes are the results of material burning. But his skin never turns to ashes, not matter how many lit cigarettes he estinguishes on his arms. It's never ashes. Never never _never!_

 

Restless. His limbs can't stop trashing. Eyes shut, crinkles between his brows and around his eyes. Fingers tugging curls, hair pulling to the point of popping vessesl under the thick skin of his skull.

 

Feet pushing the blankets away, duvet pooling at the end of the bed. What is it?

What is it?

What is it?

 

He can't stop feeling like this. What is this? He's ashamed. What is this? What is he doing what is he doing _he can't stop_

 

he can't he can't

 

he never could. He couldn't stop when he was only a child and he scared Mycroft off with his _tantrums_. He didn't know what scared them. He was the one who should have been afraid. But he wasn't, was he?

 

He was angry. Angry at himself, frustrated with his mind. Angry at his brain, stupid brain!

Stupid, stupid, _stupid!_

 

Once Mycroft tried to stop his hands from hitting himself, but Sherlock ended up hitting his older brother in the moment.

«Don't try to stop his hands like that, you'll end up beaten again. He can't control it, you want to block his arms completely next time.» the doctor's words, when they brought young Mycroft to the E&A with a black eye.

Since then, strong arms were always restraining him from behind, his own back pushed closer to the brother's chest.

 

But now there is no Mycroft holding him still. Just his own teeth biting his tongue and drawing blood, fists hitting hit head repeatedly. He is so stupid!

That's why John never stays anymore.

 

Morphine or cocaine? _Morphine or cocaine?_

 

Mrs Hudson can't see him now can't see him now _can't see him now._

 

 

John never stays anymore. Since Sherlock came back, he never stays.

He doesn't understand what he did wrong. What is it? Was the the the the the the the _was the suit?_

 

He chose it because he thought it was _appropriate._

 

His brain fixes on words and his thoughts makes no sense no sense no sense sense _sense_

 

«Morphine or cocaine?»

 

no it wasn't the suit. It's a nice suit.

 

Sherlock spent two years around the world, trying to stay away from London. He tried hard, he's been to the point of crying in frustration because no matter where he was, he would always find himself at an airport, fighting the need to change the destination of his ticket.

 

Mycroft knew and knows. He knew how hard it was for his little brother to cope with changes so drastic they brought him on the verge of a crisis. He knows how hard it is to cope with the changing routine now that he's back, the emptiness of the flat closing around his neglected body. He sees the stiffness of his brother's movements, the way his whole faces scrunches up in pain whenever his back touches the backrest of his chair, the never ending trembling of his long ruined fingers. He sees, he observes.

He never says it.

 

 

Maybe that's the whole point right now. Nobody seems to recognise the hell he's been through to save their life, but at the same time he cannot bring himself to believe he deserves recognition. He hurt them, he hurt _John_.

 

He deserves the pain now. Doesn't he?

 

Doesn't he?

_Doesn't he?_

 

 

He's alone as he was in the cell. He can still smell the faint stench of urine and blood and vomit and death. He can feel the leather on his back, the metal on his hands, the chains holding his whole body up.

 

He can never rest.

He can't sleep. They never let him sleep.

 

He pissed the bed once. He burnt the sheets. Mrs Hudson came rushing up the stairs, hand on her bad hip, worrying the life out of her. It was an experiment, he said.

 

 

John is not coming back home. _Home,_ home.

 

He knows he's hurting his body, but he can't feel the pain. Is he in pain at all? When he was younger, Mycroft believed he didn't. Once he pulled his hair so much that when he fell asleep still crying and Mummy came to put him to bed, thin locks of hair were stuck in between his fingers.

 

 

Another fix, another fix. But he can't bring himself to a stop, he knows he's making sounds and he can't control them. He feels vibrations in his chest, violent shakes going through his body, his back hits the bedpost with every oscillation. Back and forth.

Too much.

 

John is angry at him. Stupid, stupid Sherlock! Of course he's angry. Of course apologising has not been enough! He hurt John, stil hurts him.

 

John moved on. That's it. John moved on while Sherlock did not.

 

He did not moved _on_. He moved a lot _around_ the globe, but the idea that John might start a new life without him never crossed his mind.

 

Now he faces it. He has to.

 

He has her. John found better company. What kind of friend could Sherlock be to John?

 

Stupid Sherlock, stupid stupid!

His own right fist keeps hitting the temple, a raw bruise starting to darken. The walls of his bedroom are made of sand and they are crumbling down on him. His chest hurts.

Ears are ringing. The stimming stop for what feels like a two years long second.

Shut down, Sherlock. _You can't stim, Sherlock._

Shut down, shut down.

 

 

 

«Please, you need to look at him John!» the old woman looks miserable. «Please! You were his only friend, he doesn't want anyone near him!» she's obviously figthing tears now.

 

The doctor looks at his shoes, purses his lips. «I was..?» he needs to clear his throat «I still am.» it sounds more like a question.

 

The look she gives him is of pure despise. «How dare you, how _very_ dare you to think you could leave him like this! In his state, John?» she now does sound like a mother lecturing his son.

 

John's head snap up so fast he could have broke his neck. «What state.»

 

he's afraid of the answer. He feels anxiety crawling under his skin like cockroaches in a decaying corpse, his head feels light.

 

«Have you seen him, honestly? Does he look like his normal self, John?» she shakes her head with sadness, wipes her eyes with the back of her aging hands. «He's so lost, I don't know what to do.»

 

 

So they are now climbing the stairs and John _sees_ it. The flat is _dead_. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth as he thinks so. Dead. It looks like when he visited Mrs Hudson the day he proposed to Mary and Sherlock came back. Dust fills the room, the courtains slightly parted, one side is stabbed to the wall as to remain open.

 

There's a moment of awkward silence, because they _know._

This is partly John's fault.

 

«So...where is he?»

 

 

A loud cry of pain makes both their heads jerk towards the hallway. Then silence. Complete silence. Dead silence. Not a single breathe, not a cracking step. The landlady's shaky index points towards Sherlock's bedroom.

 

Their steps are temptative, John's shoes soft enough not to make too much noise. In the kitchen there is not a single fresh experiment. There are no eyes, no thumbs, no heads, nothing on the table. There are no dishes in the sink.

Few cups of not drunk tea.

 

Few cups filled with empty syringes. _Shit_.

 

«Mrs Hudson, is Sherlock using again?» he asks without looking at her, brains still trying to process what he's seeing.

The old lady shakes her head and shrugs lightly «Do you need my answer, John? Doesn't look like tea, nor like one of my herbs soother.»

The man finds a bit of life to smile at her, apologises stuck in his throat.

 

One metre, two metres, three metres. He stops at the door, feet suddendly glued to the old parquetry floor. He doesn't look back at the landlady. «What should i expect to see?»

 

«Wish I knew, dear.»

 

 

But even if she knew, no words could have prepared him. He cracks the door open, careful not stepping abruptly in the detective's space.

The smell is the first thing that hits him. The room is dark, curtains held closed by the stab of a knife trapassing the heavy dusty cloth. The floor is a mine camp. The less harmful item on the ground is a bunch of needlelss syringes.

 

«Sherlock?»

 

he's on the bed, head sunk in his thin abused arms and hands gripping tightly the dark locks of dirty hair. Something in the air is wrong, terribly tense.

He wants to reach, but _something_ tells him it's an awful idea.

His friend is curled up on himself, whole body moving back and forth repeatedly. It feels surreal. There are nails scratches on the headboard.

 

«Sherlock, it's John. Can i touch you?»

 

no answer. Whimpers and muffled moans. He's shaking so bad.

 

John knows what this is and even if he did suspected before, he never actually had any kind of confirmation. He doesn't know what Sherlock needs. Is he to be left alone? Does he need to be held?

 

«Sherlock, do you want me to go? I know it's hard, just let me know. Just signs is fine, you don't need to talk.»

 

Oh how he wishes John knew. His tongue feels heavy between his teeth, eyes shut so close his whole face hurts from muscle contraction. His hands can't leave the hair, they are gripping hard as if it's the only safe way to stay anchored to reality. Sanity. His hands are holding together his mind, his mental health and the walls of his Mind Palace.

 

It feels a bit like forever fainting. His head is so light, his body so heavy. If he loses grip on the air, the head might pull apart and drift away from the rest of him. Brain leaving soul and matter behind.

 

It feels like being forced awake for seven days, chained by his wrist and pushed into insanity. It feels like razors on his tongue, between his toes. Like knives on his chest and arms, like hard leather on his back. Blood on his urine-soaked clothes.

 

And when a hand brushes on his shoulder, his chest burst into a fit of loud sobs, stinging sensation irradiating from the point the hand touched his body.

 

No, no, no!

He can't be this vulnerable in front of John.

Does he know? Does he know how bad it was?

Does he know that death was easier to deal with?

 

Don't touch me, don't touch me.

 

«Sherlock do you need me to do anything?» the doctor is not _really_ sure what he's witnessing, if it's just a drug induced panic state or a _Sherlock_ induced state.

 

 

But how could he speak if his mouth feels full of chalk? How can he stop moving if his skin feels like stung by a thousands ants crawling underneath.

Teeth sulking in the soft flesh.

Blood.

 

How can you stop the bleeding?
    
    
    « _Ne spavaju!_ » but how could he? Seven days without sleep. He is used to late nights and sleepless days but not imposed. His mind was not busy. He wasn't high on clues, he wasn't hyped over a tiring case. 
    He was alone. It was dark.
    It was silent.
    
    It was torture. 
    

«Sherlock, stop hitting yourself. Please, you're bleeding.» in another occasion John would use his soldier voice, impose over him to make Sherlock do what he wants. But now his tone is desperate, soft and thin.

 

Thin like the sharp blades that wrote on his skin.

 

When did he start hitting himself again? He feels warm liquid slowly pervading the crinkles by his left eye, burning slighty the slimy meat of his ocular bulb.

 

The raw sound of knuckles hitting on bones becomes unbearable for John, his own teeth gritting against each other.

For Sherlock it's nothing but another note on the pentagram storming in his eardrums.

 

In the cell there was nothing but the piping screeching of blades being sharpened. It would make the hairs of his nape stand on end.

 

But he could always hear his voice.

Telling him to keep quiet, to stop trying to be smart and shut up for the love of his life.

 

John was in his head, reminding him to stay awake and alive. Awake and alive.

He failed one and it is written between his shoulder blades. Sorry, John. He tried to apologise to the voice but John got angry, so angry! Sherlock thought he was going to die there, in fucking Serbia, alone if even his Mind Palace's John left him.

 

«Sorry, sorry I am so sorry I am sorry John please forgive me- » it goes on and on without rest, lips barely opening to let the litany slip out.

 

John's heart clench tightly in his chest, his own pulse clear in his ear, drumming loudly. «Sherlock... » he can see droplets of blood and spit landing on the detective's feet. Bile is reaching the back of is throat.

 

«Dr Watson, I am afraid i have to ask you to maintain distance from my little brother.»

john's head snaps up towards the door, Mycroft standing there a bit pale, apologetic smile and sad eyes and all of those things he never usually wear on his poker face.

 

«What?»

 

«Please, back off and let him be.» he's undoing his buttons, leaving his umbrella to lean on the door frame. Mrs Hudson behind him is nibbling at he nails, worry taking over her.

 

«Mycroft, what is going on? » the doctor's nostrils are flared with stress, eyes staring directely at the elder Holmes.

 

A pained groan leaves Sherlock's lips.

 

«John, please do get away from him _now._ » and saying so Mycroft pushes him back and goes over to sit beside the whimpering man, sobs so loud they imprint in John's brain.

Mycroft's cuffs are up to his elbows, hands are cautiously reacing for Sherlock's. «Sherlock, it's fine. It's me.»

 

This is not normal. When does Mycroft's presence _ever_ calm down Sherlock? He's not remotely reassured by Mycroft's existence, he never looked like it anyway. John's head spins a bit.

«Mycroft what is going on?» his voice trembles. He feels like a moron and the scowling look the Holmes gives him does not help.

«I put profound faith in your medical experience and I expect you to know exactly what we are witnessing, Doctor Watson.» he successfully blocks Sherlock's left hand, stopping the self hitting behaviour. «Shh, shh it's fine. It's fine. »

 

It's not. This is the thing that fuels Sherlock's anger the most. It's not okay, he's not okay. His world is coming crusching down on his head and melts like glue and all he can do is trash around to keep breathing. He's not okay.

 

Mrs Hudson tip toes next to John, holds him by his bicep with trembling hands.

 

Mycroft hand slips behind Sherlock's back, careful and slow. He tries to pry open the hand still clinging to the curly hair and brings their interwined hands in Sherlock's lap and then slides behind the younger man.

Sherlock fights him, tries to break the grip and escape the embrace. Mycroft looks like he might cry.

 

This makes no sense.

 

«Sherlock, it's going to be fine.»

 

But it's not. He's going to be even more ashamed after this, he won't look John in the eyes ever again. He's going to die alone. John is going to leave.

This time it's not going to be fine.

 

John's gaze meets Mycroft's, understanding speaking for them both. Mrs Hudson is barely containing her tears.

 

Slow minutes go by as they all stay still, all except for Sherlock whose trashing is coming to an end.

 

The dark mop of dirty curls hangs low, chin against the chest, hands finally losing their fight against Mycroft.

John notices how Sherlock's chest rises slowlier and deeper each time.

Mycroft lets out a small puff of air, expression relaxing.

 

«Is he sleeping?» the landlady voice is a tiny whisper.

 

«I believe he is, Mrs Hudson.» the brother pokes his head over Sherlock's shoulder and listen to the breathing pattern, slow and _peaceful._ «Definitely, yes. He is sleeping.»

 

the tension in the soldier's shoulders leaves his body in a whiff, eyelids heavy and tired. «Jesus Christ.» he rubs his face, thumb and index on each closed eye, pressing down tears. «What was that about, Mycroft?»

 

«Everything and nothing, I am afraid. These episodes do not need a particular trigger to happen, doctor.»

 

«Why didn't yo-why didn't you tell me about this? What the fuck, really! Wh- _HOW_ am i supposed to behave in a situation like this?» he manages to keep his voice low, but the anger linger between the words.

 

«I believe I miscalculated. He's been so good at keeping this kind of episode at bay for the last years, I didn't think it would be necessary to inform you of their existence.» he is careful in lowering Sherlock in a fetal position on the bed, holding his head with one palm until it rests on the pillow.

 

«You-Honestly, i thought you were geniuses or something. But the more i know you two the more i doubt it.» he pinches the bridge of his nose, shuts his eyes for few seconds. He looks at the detective's bloody temple. «I need...I need to cure that cut.» and he rushes out of the room leaving a trembling Mrs Hudson behind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's been hours and they are all in the sitting room, cups of tea have been drank, biscuits have been baked from a stressed Mrs Hudson. Sherlock is sleeping, or that's what the silence in the flat suggests.

 

«What should we do now? He won't talk about it, right?» she is standing on the armrest, hands resting on her knee.

 

«You should ignore it unless it's him to approach the subject.» he lifts one hand in John's direction as he tries to answer, « _AND_ you will want to talk about the drug use, though. I do believe it is a necessary conversation.»

 

«Neces-» John stands up suddenly, fists tight. «What the hell is wrong with you all, exactly? Is there one of you who is normal or-? »

 

«I am normal.» three heads snap fast towards a death-looking Sherlock who is leaning against the doorframe, gripping it weakly with a pale thin hand.

His tired eyes are red with crying, shirt crumpled and wrinkled with sleep. «But Mycroft is right, I suppose.» he walks to the kitchen table, looks for a clean cup.

 

John watches him with stupor. What the hell, he is an idiot. Of all the words he could use, _normal_ was the worst choice so far. «I didn't mea-I'm sorry.»

 

he still hears Sherlock's apologieses chanting between sobs and groans from hours before. And the detective does too, his head snapping up so fast his muscles screamed in protest. «John, you have nothing to be sorry about.» his tone is almost affronted, eyes wide with

 

_fear?_

 

«You have absolutely nothing to be sorry about and I don't want to hear another single word out of your mouth.» a cup hit loudly the bottom of the sink. «I am going to take a shower.»

 


	2. Plans.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John doesn't know a thing. And it shall remain this way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello beautiful people! This chapter is a little bit shorter than the previous, finding time to write these days seems impossible. I hope you'll enjoy it despite the flaws.  
> Let me know what you think of it, your opinion is important to me!
> 
> Twitter: @stubbornqueer
> 
> Love,  
> Evander.

«JOHN!»

 

In years of sharing a flat, as well as his whole life, with the man, John's sleep has been disturbed many times by loud noises, explosions and shouts.

But Sherlock's voice is strangerly pitched, throat closed and hands tight and _trashing trashing trashing_ limbs.

 

He sits up immediately, neck cracking from the weird angle his body assumed in his sleep.

Sherlock's yell was clear and painfully desperate.

 

Mycroft is sitting in the black chair, looking sadly at his own feet.

 

«What happened?»

 

A loud bang, rushed words slipping under the door to nest in John's brain, laying eggs and maggots that will tear John's sleep to pieces for the next couple of years. «Shit!»

 

Heart beating fast in his throat, heart clenching tightly in his chest, John runs fast to Sherlock's door, slamming the door open. «Sherlock, what's going on?!» breath short, trembling hands. Adrenaline is flowing angrily in his veins.

 

But Sherlock is rolling frantically in his sheets, fingernails scratching at his neck, red marks angry and frantic movements making the detective all but peacefully sleeping. His eyes are closed, shut but are moving convulsively under the thin lids.

 

Nightmare.

 

There's blood and skin under sherlock's nails.

«Sherlock, Sherlock wake up.» as soon as John's hands touch the younger man, he starts screaming again, fresh tears sliding down his cheeks.

«John! Please let me go! John, help!»

 

 

_John could never help. He watched from a wet corner of the cellar. He watched, silent, arms crossed on his chest and teeth worrying his tin upper lip._

_He watched as blood dripped down his back. He watched as his naked body consumed itself, muscles torn and lips busted and nose bleeding. He murmured things, small reassurances. Whenever they left, he would come by his side to list him all the new damages, the new fractured rib, the depth of that fresh gash that's burning his left shoulder. But he never touched him._

 

 

«Sherlock, it's a nightmare! I am here, it's all fine!» tentative touches try to get a firm hold of those pale hands, he tries and tries to make him stop. «Sherlock, you are safe! You're home!» he holds him by the wrists, arms stretched in front of his trashing body.

 

The detective whimpers, lids fluttering open a couple of times before opening wide with shock. «DON'T-!»

 

John's heart shrinks and sinks. Sherlock's eyes are red rimmed, the bruise from the previous episode now dark and the blood dry.

 

 _Blinks._ «John?»

 

John lets out a heavy puff of air. «Yes, god yes. Thank god. I am here.» he smiles down tentatively, hands coming down to rest on the mattress.

 

«John.» His eyes are taking in every bit of John's face, pupils darting left and right and up and down and _stop and left right up down eyes mouth hair crinkles and teeth and brows and eyes and_

 

«Sherlock? Hey, stay with me. Look at me, calm down.»

His trained hands lay on both sides of Sherlock's face, hot palms over the thin layer of cold sweat.

 

«John John John- »

 

 

_They never let him sleep and John kept him company. He told him about their cases, reminding him the wildest chases and the never ending nights looking for the incriminating evidence. Once the memories were so delightful he couldn't help the weak smile on his lips. It didn't pass unnoticed._

 

_John never talked about their time spent together again._

 

 

«Sherlock, I am here.» he runs his hands up and down the detective's arms, the contact meant to bring him back to reality.

 

There's something so wrong about this picture, so wrong. They way Sherlock keeps looking at him with panic, eyes oozing with distress and anxiety.

 

He now notices how both the detective's thumbs are pressing down on the pulse point of his own wrists, counting beats and rate and

 

_eyes closed. Deep breath. Relax._

 

«Sherlock?»

 

 

_«Please, be quiet Sherlock. You need to be quiet.» He is keeling in front of him, hand stretched out but not close enough to touch his face. «Shh, if they hear you they're going to kill us. Shut up, please.»_

_And he tries to stay silent but those broken fingers hurt too much and his lungs feel like they might implode anytime soon._

_They hear him._

 

 

 

«John I'm sorry I can't be quiet, I can't be quiet!» he's murmuring frantically, scared voice wet of tears. «They always hear me, they alway do.» he shakes his head and close his eyes again.

 

What? «They? Who are you talking about? No, Sherlock? Open your eyes, stay here.» he forces his eyes open again, thumbs gently touching the bluish lids. «Here, look at me. Good lad, here you are.» he pushes aside the damp hair resting on his wet forehead, sighing in defeat when he feel the skin giving out heat. «Fever, great. Mycroft, come here a minute!»

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock's been sleeping for the past hour. John sits quietly next to him on the bed, laptop on his knees. Mycroft brought a chair in the room and is sitting in a corner.

 

«He saw you.»

 

it's basically a whisper. John is not even sure he hears it. «What?»

 

The man straighten his shoulders and rubs one finger on his eyebrow. «My bother, he- he often said he saw you back then.»

 

«Back then _when?_ » the doctor lifts his eyes from the screen. «What are you talking about?»

 

«Doctor Watson, I am afraid you're missing an important part of my little brother's life. He didn't go on a vacation.» his voice hints a bit of irony, but his face is dead serious.

 

«I have no idea where Sherlock spent the past two years, but i know where i have been. Honestly, I don't think this is a conversation we should hav- »

 

«I am afraid we should. Your lack of knowledge is harmful for both you and my brother.» he grips a bit harder the handle of the umbrella. «I suggest we leave the room for a moment.»

 

John looks at the man sleeping heavily beside him, then carefully slips out of bed and follows the older Holmes in the living room.

 

Something in the way Mycroft's feet shift on the floor feels like heavyness, John's leg gives in a couple time with a sudden sharp pain. He hasn't felt this pain for a long time. John stare at the man's back, shoulder straight and tense.

 

«So?» he grips lightly his own thigh.

 

Mycroft doesn't turn, keeps staring out of the window with what probably are sad eyes. He points something with his hands behind his back and John takes few seconds before getting the imput. «Take a sit, Dr Watson. This is not going to be a light tell.»

 

 

 

 

 

John remembers the war. It's been years, but he remembers. If he tries- not even hard- he can hear the bombshell exploding, shell shock causing him a ringing in his ears for months. He remembers how his hands would refuse to stop shaking even after five months of recovery, how his sleep is still not peaceful and the way his mattress in the hospital room was less comfortable than the hard ground he slept in in the trenches.

 

But nothing prepared him for this.

 

He remembers tortured companions, days and nights spent stitching up friends' arms and lips and broken fingers and ribs and legs and

 

_stop._

 

He remembers too well.

 

«Why, I want to know why on heart you left him getting in trouble like that. » his hands shakes, he fists them up to refrain from hitting something. Someone. Anger is something he still finds hard to manage. «Tell me Mycroft, for the love of god, _how_ were you able to leave your brother gets in harm's way like this.»

 

Mycroft is standing still, back to John, his head hungs low. «I need you to understand that it was extremely difficult for me. I don't need to make sure you are aware of war's dynamics. You know war, Doctor Watson. I could not-»

 

«FOR CHRIST'S SAKE! YOU HOLD _GOD KNOWS WHAT AND WHO_ BETWEEN YOUR HANDS, YOU ARE-» Mrs Hudson pokes out of the door, gives him a stern look. He lowers the tone. «You are the _damned british government_ , you could have helped him.»

 

That's when he turns and John is quite astonished to notice how wet the man's eyes are. « I can assure you I made my very best, John. He is my little brother, I tried to save him.» his sad smile is tilted to the ground. «But you know Sherlock. And you know how he works. And you know our relationship is quite...turbulent.»

 

John fights against the impulse to strangle him. «Of course I do. But you let him fake his own death and _then_ you sent him to _die._ »

 

«It was not my plan, John.»

 

«Oh, I see! So _he_ comes to you with this genius plan and _you_ make sure it works!» his fists feel like blood. He needs those anger managment therapy sessions.

Mycroft lets out a tired sigh. It's an unfamiliar sight, the man refusing to directly look at John. His eyes are running along the wood grain of the floor; they're looking for answer in the scattered papers on the ground.

 

«I did not agree with my brother's plan, John.»

 

 

 

 

 

He is listening. Face hidden in the sheets, hands clutching one another and held tight to his aching sternum. They've been talking for the past twenty-seven minutes. Mycroft's been taking long pauses, John's leg hurts.

John's voice is hoars and feels like sandpaper against his eardrums.

Tap tap tap, index and thumb index and thumb _index and thumb_

 

_stop._

 

John's voice is hitting too close to home. Or, his silence is.

His past two years keeps playing in the back of his head, stinging sharply and making his eyes well up with anger.

 

Mycroft's words are too alive, too pulsing and bleeding for him to cope. Bleeding, it's what he did for days. John doesn't need to know. «You don't need to know.» it's a whisper

answering John's choleric questions. John can't hear him.

 

«I need you to understand that Sherlock does not react like other people.» his brother says.

 

 

 

_«We need to accept that Sherlock does not react like other kids his age.» the doctor stares at them with a mix of pity and...amusement?_

_«Why do you think it's funny? Do you think mommy and daddy are being naive because they wanted to help me?»_

_Mycroft's eyes snap on him, then up to the doctor's face. Their parents are blushing furiously. «Sherlock! Apologise immediately, that was rude.»_

_Why the anger? «I think my vocabulary was way far from rude, Mommy.»_

_The doctor is staring at him awkwardly, face red and hands fidjetting with a pen. «No, no. It's fine, he read it wrong on my face, I was just tryi-»_

_Sherlock stands up, hands behind his back with the attitude of a grown up. «I think we agreed that there is nothing wrong with me. So, in my opinion, I request you leave my house right now. Otherwise, I think I'll be going in my room.» he bows to the specialist and then to his parents. Mycroft hold out his hand. He takes it and walk hand in hand with his older brother._

_Mycroft saw the upcoming breakdown in his shaky fingers and silent wheezing._

 

 

«He will suffer from this and I trust you to be here to help.»

 

 

_«Mike, Mike...»_

_Sherlock is rocking back and forth, held in place only by his brother's tight embrace. «I know, I know.» he feels tears in the corner of his eyes, buries his face in the curls of the young boy. Sherlock is wheezing, strangled gasps the only intake of air he's able to take between sobs and groans. Mycroft is holding his little trembling hands in his own, keeping him from biting the back of them. «Don't hurt yourself, Sherlock.» he sees how the boy sinks his teeth through the sleeve of his shirt, cloth too thick to allow proper damage but enough to cause a sharp pain. «Please, please...»_

 

 

 

«So you're telling me I need to accept that my bestfriend has been tortured and will suffer from PTSD while I am still recovering from my own trauma and I'll have to be here babysitting him as my soon to be wife and mother of my chil-»

 

Mycroft hand lands on the table, cutting off John mid-rambling with a loud _bang_. «NO! What I _am_ telling you is that my brother as been _abused and tortured_ for days and that he needs _you_.» a long pause, silence heavy.

Sherlock hears the blood pumping in his temples. «John. I know your life was taking another turn but-no, please let me talk. He won't let anyone in. I am begging you to be the friend he needs.»

Something resembling a cup rolls on the wooden floor, the tip of Mycroft's umbrella hitting the thing repeatedly. «We both know of his addiction, I can't let him destroy himself again af-» _stop._ «I can't. He might hate me, but he's still my brother. And your bestfriend.»

John's answer is not fast to come. There's shuffling coming from the room, clearing of throats. A sad chuckle. «My bestfriend. He-» _stop._ «He let me grieve. He knew and he let me grieve. I was about to give up, I w-I almost-» John's voice shakes. It breaks.

 

Shutdown. Sherlock's mind goes blank. Coping mechanism, they say. His friend's pain is overwhelming, his head hurts too much.

 

He let John grieve. He almost led him to death. Because he couldn't tell him .

He needs a fix, his stomach is twisting and turning and he can't

 

the room is too dark and the lack of light is grinding his whole body, lungs crushing and drying out like raisins and the pressure in his ears is making his mouth feel weird and eyes shut tight tight _tight_

 

«It was not my plan, John.» Mycroft voice is small. Why is it so small? When has Mycroft's voice ever been this small?

 

«Oh, I see! So _he_ comes to you with this genius plan and _you_ make sure it works!»

 _stop._ John is losing control. His voice shakes badly, not with pain. It's rage, it's outrage.

 

John thinks Mycroft was okay with the whole plan? Of course he does. He doesn't know what they were playing with, he doesn't know what Moriarty's plan was.

 

But what comes next is scarier, because John not knowing was somehow comforting. If he doesn't know the details, he will miss the biggest one.

He needs to get up.

 

«I did not agree with my brother's plan, John.»

 

 

Every step he takes towards the men is reminding him how consumed his body is, how proved and stitched up and bruised it is. The cracks in his ribs, the infection eating his flesh of his shoulder, his over worked brain asking for

 

_morphine or cocaine?_

 

 

the hallway is spinning, tunnel vision disorienting his steps, hand following the path of the walls

 

_are they moving? The walls are moving._

 

He sees what looks like syringes near his naked feet. Nedleless, dirty, broken, empty syringes. Used.

 

«Sherlock!» a pair of strong arms is reaching for him, holding him up by his weak shoulders.

 

«John, he doesn't know.»

 

«Brother, you need to sit. Doctor, please make use of your degree and _help me._ »

Mycroft is holding him, fingers digging in his skin like burning sticks between his ribs. He sees the corner of the kitchen table, rest of the room dipped in black. Things clink knocking over each other, recipients rolling off the table and shattering on the floor. He tries to reach out, but his movements are slow and delayed and his hands reaches for a glass that's already shards.

 

_Dammit!_

 

«Alright, alright Sherlock. Calm down, stay put.» A firm hand takes his pulse. John's hand? Rough but clean, nails cut short. John's.

He knows his beats are too fast, he knows his mind is panicking.

 

Relax, he should relax. But John's cologne is too strong. And Mycroft keeps a hand on his right shoulder but Sherlock can't see him becausee _damn his eyes._

 

«What did you take? Sherlock? Morphine or cocaine?»

 

_Morphine or cocaine?_

 

_Morphine? Cocaine?_

 

«Both.»

 


	3. Bottles.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confusing chapter about details and realisations. Sherlock doesn't want to die and John doesn't know it. Also, mood swings are definitely a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooooooo...  
> I've struggled a whole lot with this chapter and it still doesn't sound entirely right to me. I still hope you will enjoy it and I ask all of you to please please please leave me a comment to let me know IF and WHAT went wrong in this chapter. If you're not registered, this is my personal mail and I encourage you to send me an e-mail. Thank you!  
>  evan.nicastro@outlook.com
> 
> Love,  
> Evander.

Both: used as a function word to indicate and stress the inclusion of each of two or more things specified by coordinated words, phrases, or clauses.

 

But in this moment, it means nothing to John.

 

He stares at the unmoving eyes fixed on the table hoping for eye contact. Mycroft lets out a sad sigh, shakes his head.

 

Sherlock took morphine and cocaine. He craved the edginess, he craved the blood pumping angrily in his veins. And then numbed the pain of withdrawal with morphine, lowering his blood rate with the promptness of a vigilant blocking a racing car at a red light.

 

_Breathing complications, heart failure, lungs failure, high blood pressure, low blood pressure, kidney failure-_

 

«That's it? Just cocaine and morphine? Can you promise, Sherlock?» Mycroft takes out a small black moleskine and a pretentious golden pen. John can't believe his words.

 

« _Just_ morphine and cocaine? Are you insane?!» voice raising, his fist hits the table causing Sherlock to wince. His thin fingers are shaking as he tries to hide his quivering lips.

 

Mycroft puts the small notebook back in his hidden poket, he looks at John with a fake smile plastered on his lips. «My brother is a long term addict, Doctor. His habits have been way worse than this.»

 

John sees red. It looks like in Holmes family runs a bad habit of dismissing one's risk of death. Mycroft voice is so composed, his posture is so relaxed.

The whole scene makes John's stomach twists.

 

«Honestly, your brain might be the smartest of this planet, but you are incredibily dense.» he pinches the bridge og his nose, breathing deep and a bit too hard for it to have a calming effect. «It never occurred your brilliant mind that _this_ might be a problem?» and he is trying to keep his voice calm but his throat pushes the words out angrily and roughly and he feels ready to end a man.

 

«Of course he did, it's just the wrong conclusion.» Sherlock's voice is so weak. He is covering his eyes with his palm, face laying in his hand to cover the acid light of the kitchen. «I am not an addict, I am a user. I can stop.»

 

 

Breathe. John needs to breathe and count.

He needs to remind himself that his friend is recovering, that he is obviously in an altered state and that it would be extremely wrong to punch him.

 

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

 

«And I am not a child needing babysitting.»

 

_Four._

_Five._

 

«And I request you leave this place right now, _brother mine._ » Sherlock mocks Mycroft, waving abstractally his hand in his direction before going back to protect his triggered eyes.

 

_Six._

_Seven._

_Eight._

_Nine._

_Ten._

 

«Shut the fuck up, Sherlock.» he looks hysterical. He's smiling, but it feels like his body is not responding correctely to his emotions. He's fuming, struggling to keep the situation cool and _bloodless._ «Just, shut up. You-» he groans and breathes in, chuckles darkly, hands on hips. «You don't get to do this. Not now. Not to me, not to yourself.»

 

Sherlock slowly removes his hand, lifts his head to look at John. He makes to talk, but John's finger is fast to shut him up. «Don't you da-don't you dare contradict me.»

A pause. He scratches his forehead, misures the weight of his words. He wants to rip his scalp apart and leave the room permanently, bleeding all over the kitchen floor.

 

It's not going to happen. He stands here, every inch of his body trying to refrain from running. He can't understand what's happening, he doesn't even remember how he became involved in this whole thing. He looks at Mycroft, whose eyes are fixed on his brother shoulders. Sherlock is absently playing with the hem of the left sleeve of the dressing gown.

 

John looks around the flat. It's a disaster. He can see where the younger man spent his days, blankets crumpled in a corner like a nest. There are shattered plates, mugs laying on the old parquet. Empty bottles of scotch. Syringes. He forces himself to think that it's not a physical representation of Sherlock's condition at the moment. Ruined. Messed up. Posisoned. Abandoned.

 

When Sherlock came back after his fake suicide, after John finally let got the memory of his fake funeral and a fake coffin with a fake body in it and a fake tombstone which he visited every day for a year, John had not been happy to see him. He wasn't prepared, he spent a year and half worth of therapy sessions trying to say Sherlock's name out loud without his voice sounding strangled and broken and dead. He was prepared to propose to Mary. He was prepared to start a new life with her, to attend surgery every day of the week to bring home money and pay his rent and

 

not that.

 

He didn't expect his dead best friend to show up at his table the night he decided to make the _big question._ Sherlock hates the term, of course he does. _That's not even a “big” question, John._ They were on a case when he said that, nose scrunched up and a never ending eyeroll. _If you propose to someone you trust them to say yes, if you are ready to spend the rest of your life with someone until the day death will pay you a visit and do you the courtesy, I suppose you must be really...fond of that person and very secure about your possibilities._

John didn't expect Sherlock to ever return home, just like he never thought himself to come back from war.

 

But Sherlock is here, quite alive- as in breathing and beating- and he still looks like death. His skin is almost transparent, purple bags under his spent eyes, lips tinted in a pale blue. He looks more dead now than laying on the concrete pavement of the walkway under Bart's.

 

He suts his eyes and digs the nails in the palms of his balled up hands. Breathe. He is a doctor and a soldier and his friend is clearly in need of help.

 

«Sherlock, why didn't you tell me?»

 

the detective looks annoyed, his mouth trembling with the instant wave of nausea that comes along with his petty eyeroll. «Why should I? Are you my mother?»

 

Mycroft laugh is humorless. He's shaking his head, walking next to John and pointing his umbrella in his brother's face. «You would never tell our mother about your _addiction_. You never did, it's always been me, the bad brother that has to tell his parents their son's recovered _god knows where_ because he overdosed on street drugs.» John hates how polite his voice is despite the things it just described.

 

Of course this is not the first time Sherlock's been out of tits on drugs. But it's confusing and frustrating and infuriating now. Because the reality of things hits him hard in the face and he realises.

 

He realise that Sherlock is not immortal. That he is flesh and blood and vital organs and vital functions compromised by drugs. That he feels things like he does, that he suffered and suffers and it's tormenting.

 

It's tormenting and it's crippling and he _sees_ now. He doesn't know why but he sees it.

«Sherlock, you need to stop this.»

 

John's voice is so little, so broken. No Captain Watson voice, no Doctor Watson imposing his knowledge over him. Just John. The same little voice that told him to hush and be quiet and listed him all the stitches he would have needed if he ever got out of that cellar. «If I wanted to stop, I very easily could.»

 

The older Holmes' creepy laugh sounds louder in the room one more time before dying in a sad chuckle. «Brother mine, we both know how unlikely it is for you to quit using. You struggle with cigarettes, I am very sorry to remind you. I won't let it happen again, Sherlock. Not like the la-»

 

it's quick and sudden. It's not a gawky attack, but a well calibrated assault. Sherlock is fast on his feet and against Mycroft, one hand in his thin hair and one around his wrist. Mycroft ends colliding against the door jambs with his sternum, the impact getting a painful huff of air out of his lungs. The detective is behind him, holding him there by an arm twisted painfully behind the back, Sherlock's hand gripping angrily Mycroft's wrist. « _Brother mine_ , I will snap you in half if you don't keep your oral cavity _shut._ » he's whispering in Mycroft's ear, the man head forced back on Sherlock's shoulder by a strong hold on his hair.

 

To John's disbelief, Mycroft does not respond. He groans as his arm lets out an alarming snapping sound and Sherlock lets go of him to turn to John. He points a finger to his chest, eyes sharp and redand

 

_sad._

 

He did not expect sadness. Range, wildness. Just not sadness.

Dilated pupils are staring at him, studying reactions and movements, following his emotions with a tilt of the head that resemble one of an animal. He looks like a feline, eyes dark and scanning maniacally John's features. His hand lowers.

«Go away.» he spits through gritted teeth. His hands are shaking again, laid by his sides. He catches John glaring at them and tries to hide them in the pokets. «Leave, now. It's not your home anymore.»

 

Oh.

 

Sternum cracking and ribcage crumpling up in a ball of bones and meat and blood. His heart is crushing and pounding against the bleeding collapse of his body. _It's not your home anymore._

«Sh-Sherlock, stop this. You nee-» but the detective is stepping incredibly closer and now

 

_breathe,_ but John's cologne is awfully strong

 

_breathe,_ but Sherlock reeks of alchool and is close, so incredibily close _close close_

 

«John, I don't really want to give you the treatment i dearly reserve for my brother,» grey eyes are burying themselves in John's dark ones but not quite staring as if Sherlock is looking through him and not _at_ him; John notices. « but I assure I will not claim my actions as my own if you don't leave this room right now.» but then there it is. His chin trembles slightly, lips pouting for a fraction of a second. _Lie._

His words are empty and recited like a script from a play.

 

«I won't remind you who is a soldier and who's an addict coming down from a suicide mission fueled by life threateting drugs.» he takes a step back, distancing himself from a taken back Sherlock. «But _you_ need rest and _I_ am a doctor » he smile at himself when he catches the younger man huffing in frustration « _and_ a soldier.»

 

Mycroft is standing behind his brother, not sure if he should interfere or let them be. But Sherlock is not shaking, he is not tense, his shoulder are not squared in defence. He looks smaller as his black mop of curls hangs lower and lower, fists slowly relaxing.

 

«Sherlock, I know why you're hurting and to be honest I am not sure I want to know further. But I want to help you. Please let me help you.»

 

There is no answer to that. They all stand in silence, John and Mycroft exchanging looks of understanding. Sherlock is stone cold, eyes studying the pattern of John's shoes, squeezing now and then with question that are bombarding his brain.

 

_Is he truthful? He seems to mean his words. But is he being honest with himself? John, are you sure you're ready to forgive me?_

 

«I nee-» he gulps and shuts his mouth, forehead suddenly worried, eyes closed. He presses a hand on his lips and it becomes clear. John rushes the bin in front of him, the recipient full of balled up pieces of paper and glasses and needles. As soon as he sees the bin, Sherlock empties his stomach in it. John sees Mycroft facing away from the scene and then drops his eyes on the vivid red in his friend's vomit. Blood.

 

Not dark blood, which reassures him, but still blood. It could be the result of the constant puking messing up with the gastro-espohageal tract. It could be ulcers, it could be anything. He sees his medical degree rip apart in fron of his eyes. Panic.

 

«Sherlock, you need to tell me if you're hurting.»

 

«Deduce it, doctor. Do i look fine?» he looks annoyed yet less dead, but the mood swings are disorienting John, and _god_ he tries hard to not kick him in the shins.

 

«I am not asking if you're fine, I am asking what is hurting right now. If you didn't notice, you just threw up blood. You lack a degree, but I am sure you get that it's not a good thing.»

Their eyes meet for a moment and John's breath hitches. Sherlock's eyes are glossy and tired, pupils blown and scleras bloodshot. Sherlock's mouth opens and closes few time, gaping.

He can't tell him, he has to lie. He wants to tell John that _No, I am not fine. My back looks like a Kandinky's piece and I have three fractured ribs that won't heal and I spent two years holding on the hope you wouldn't believe a word I said on that roof._

He is not fine. He doesn't want to die, he is not trying to kill himself and he wants John to know that but

 

mind goes blank

 

stop

 

_« Govoriti!» a blow to his lower back, metal on skin. He can feel the point where the skin rips apart. They want him to talk, but how could he talk? John is staring at him with eyes wide open, a finger pressed to his lips. “Don't talk” is what he mouths. _

_Another blow to the back of his head knocks him out._

 

 

Exhale.

 

 

Hands are holding him by the shoulders. «Sherlock? You almost fell, can you hear me?»

 

_Yes, yes I can hear you._ He searches John's gaze but he can't quite hold it, his own eyes running away furiously every time they meet deep blue. All that comes out of his mouth is a srangled noise.

 

«Alright...Mycroft, 'mind to give me a hand?» they lift the detective's arms over their shoulders, one on each side, to help him walk to his black chair. «Sherlock, I need you to look at me. Look at me, Sherlock.»

The repetition of his name is stabbing the detective in his eardrums, the final “'ock” sounding like billiard balls hitting each other. He wants to block out the sound, he needs silence. But his hands are pressing on his ears so hard and it's only trapping the sounds inside his head.

 

He screams.

 

«Sherlock! What's going on? Not agai-Mycroft?» John glares alarmed at the man and then back on his panicking friend. «Sherlock, look at m-»

 

«Doctor, he won't look at you. Stop asking, don't force him. And you really want to shut up.»

 

Shutting up seems convenient. After few minutes Sherlock starts calming down.

 

Not only he calms down, but something lights up inside his brain and he does look up at John. Not only at, but inside him. He sees the gears running in John's head, the questions and the diagnosis and the confusion.

«Asperger's.» his palm feels rough on his face as he wipes the sweat off the skin. «Stop wondering, John. Your brain can't possibly take it.»

 

John says nothing, he's still standing in front of him with both hands resting on his hips and tounge licking the bottom lip absently. He shifts his weight one leg to the other. He's trying hard not to look surprised or give away the fact that yes, he knew, but hearing him say it out loud makes it harder. Harder to think Sherlock has undergone torture knowing _how much_ he feels, how stronger his senses are. He's been tortured and he's torturing himself right now and has been doing so since he's come back and John can't understand.

 

«That's exactly why I didn't tell you before. That look. I told you I am autistic, not that I am dying. Calm down, you're gonna lose your hair.» and he smiles a bit, a tiny little smile that makes John want to fucking cry.

«I am sorry. I didn't kno-»

«Exactly! You didn't know and you acted perfectly fine and I swear I will make you move out of this flat right now if you change your habits around me. I am perfectly fine and I don't need you to add autism to the causes of my _uneasiness_.»

The detective's words are calm and light and John's face goes red with shame. Then the colour washes away, capillaries drained out and blood flowing back to the growing abashment knot in his stomach. _I will make you move out of this flat right now._

 

He moved out. More than a year ago. It took him months to get himself to open Sherlock's bedroom and another couple of weeks to get inside. It took seven months for his thing to be safe and secure in a couple of cardboard boxes. Two more months for him to actually move out. For the first weeks he kept coming back at 221B after work, keys wouldn't fit in the keyhole and he would hiss profanities under his breath, tears threatening to escape. He couldn't sleep, spent night after night staring at the foreign ceiling; changing side because the bed felt like concrete.

He watches his left hand which is shaking and opening and closing

open and close

 

_open and close._

 

«John, don't overthink it. It slipped, I apologise.» Sherlock's voice is too soft, worry melting on each word and he sucks in his bottom lip with anxiety, gaze dropping on John's feet.

 

John's nostrils flares with sudden anger. Not with Sherlock, but with himself. The scene is missing a piece and it takes Sherlock fucking Holmes to understand what it is. The only constant in this conversation are mood swings.

Mycroft told him about Serbia, about torture and abuse and that Sherlock is not healing. He is not healing and is numbing flashbacks and pain with cocaine and morphine and god knows what else. John himself is not over his own post traumatic stress and he can't see how they could survive to Sherlock's.

How he will be able help with nightmares when most nights he is knocked off by pills and alchool.

 

What a hypocrite he would be, telling his best friend to stop using when he can't stop filling glasses and emptying bottles.

 

 


	4. Hearts gone cold like those coffee cups.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's life in the two years Sherlock's been away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an angsty peek at John's life while Sherlock was away. It's a shorty chapter, as I don't want to anguish anyone with a 8 pages long sad monologue. I am sorry for my long absence, I can't promise I'll be constant with my work because I've been through some nasty things. I hope I'll be able to return with more constancy in a couple of weeks. 
> 
> As always, let me know what you think of this chapter! Creative critics are always welcomed.
> 
> All the love,  
> Evander.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

He met Mary at the surgery. She's a nurse. She was great, kindness irradiating from her open smile, big eyes welcoming patients as soon as they stepped in the waiting room.

 

She saw him growing paler day by day, shirts crumpled and tucked in his trousers. He was still trying hard to be decent, to have a shower every night and put something in his stomach at least once a day. Something solid.

She bought him coffee every morning, a cup gone cold always waiting for him in his office, on the desk. Every week he could taste a bit more sugar, an added spoon of sugar Mary slipped in it afraid the doctor was not eating enough.

 

The first time they went out together, she invited him to get a sandwich at the hospital's bar during a quiet hour. They eated almost in silence, Mary swallowing bread and ham with a bite of anxiety when she saw the man fagocitating the meal with bad hidden hunger.

 

«You should slow down, you'll get bloated if you keep eating like that!» she tried to joke. She really tried to get to him.

 

She kind of tried for a whole two months now. But the answer is always the same, an ashamed «Yeah, you're _right._ » mumbled hurriedly.

 

 

And after a year worth of mumbled appologies, she started to see the glimpses of the happy man he used to be. He smiled, he was gentle. He came to work evey morning in time, fresh shirts tucked neatly in a new pair of jeans. His chest felt lighter.

 

They moved in togheter at some point. She got him out of that biological hazard he called “home”. She made sure he ate and drank enough. She woke him up at 3am when the screaming started. She picked up the pieces at 9pm when he returned home late, a text anticipating him saying he was sorry and she just knew he gave the wrong address to the driver.

 

She made sure he ate properly until he started spontanously cooking for them. He arranged the food in a peculiar way, portions neatly separated. His mashed potatoes never had too much butter or too little salt, the consistence soft and velvety. And she ate happily, heart light fork quick to show she appreciated every bit of it. And he watched as she did, as if Mary was the one needing supervising.

 

And he would put the plates in the sink to wash them in the morning and every morning, when she woke up at 6:00 o'clock, 30 minutes just before him, there was always one more glass in the pile of dirty dishes.

 

It started like this, with a «glass of water, the ham we ate got me super thirsty last night.» and a reassuring smile.

 

Months passed and it wasn't a doubt anymore. But again, a british man who doesn't drink?

But with empty glasses joined empty sheets, a side of the bed going cold each night. Mary would turns around in her sleep to find the covers rised on John's side, the alarm on the nighstand whispering _3:06AM_ in a fading red light.

 

John drank. A lot. At night.

 

Alone.

 

A couple of times she swore she heard him sobbing. He told her everything, about his bestfriend committing suicide, jumping in front of his eyes. What he didn't tell her, his nightmares did. He talked vividly, screaming often and crying and trashing and sobbing and it was horrible. But she could not deny that after almost two years, his reactions were still a bit unusual. He was a soldier. He saw death. He's a doctor and a surgeon and he'd seen blood and dead bodies and death of loved ones.

But she never mentions this.

 

 

 

 

It's been two years now, and all of her caring reassurances and attentions ended down a fucking toilet with John's dinner.

Sherlock was alive. John looked like death. He punched him, straight in the face. More than once. And the passive aggressive mourning John came back that night.

 

It was supposed to be a nice- no, the best night of his life. He wanted to propose to her. He wanted to start again, all over from the start. Mary was his new start.

The nice restaurant, the expensive wine he almost didn't touch, the fine champagne. It all went to waste.

 

He felt trapped in a nightmare, brought back in a flashback and held stuck on his feet.

 

«Not dead.» he said, but John didn't trust his ears. Nor his eyes.

 

That night his facade held for mere minutes before the breakdown burst.

It started with a petty comment about Mary waiting for him in bed and ended with him kneeling in front of the toilet. Mary watched powerless, hand rubbing his shaking back. That night Sherlock was like a bottle of scotch, keeping John up all night and making his stomach distort in waves of nausea.

 

When he went to bed that night and he looked at her, his chest collapsed under the weight of guilt. Because he could stand Sherlock being dead, he was about to get on with his own life to move on. He could live knowing he was dead. But he couldn't possibily bear the existance of Sherlock without it gravitating around him.

 

 

He wished he could fill his empty heart with water, the same way he replenished half drank scotch bottles to make them look untouched.

 

 


	5. Maybe.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little catch up of life just after Sherlock returned from the dead and how everything drifted apart.

  


  


The first couple of months after Sherlock's return, crime scenes had become...something else. It felt like walking on eggshells, tiptoeing around the detective fearing to scare him off and make him vanish. There's something new in his eyes, tender yet cold, scanning John when Sherlock thinks he's not looking.

  


_You look sad when you think he can't see you._

  


John has always been used to be quiet around the him, but after his return it was more of a coping mechanism than a courtesy. Yes, he was happy Sherlock was back and not dead. But the anger and sadness won't leave.

  


He felt like the he was the crime of the scene. He had to be careful around him, quiet and silent and so so careful. On their first case after Sherlock's return, John had no idea why but he felt the need to be as invisible as possible. Sherlock was strangely not rude, something tender taking the best of him in the way his gaze dropped on the floor and softened everytime it met John's.

  


_It feels so wrong._

  


Case after case, it became more evident. But John's movements were still gravitating around the detective's. If Sherlock moved on the left, John would too, but few metres behind the younger man's back. He could not stand being beside him, a gloomy pressure crushing his lungs everytime those eyes lended on him for a fraction of a second. And it's not like Sherlock was proposefully avoiding John, he's not been pushing him away by pulling his strings as he used to. But the looks and gazes lasted less and less every time, a quick apologetic smile as soon as the cold eyes left the doctor's face.

  


  


Sherlock was not allowed to look at John. Everytime his eyes rested on the doctor he felt punches and kicks all over again. Bruises forming in new spots, bleeding cuts opening on the other cheekbone. He couldn't look at John. And John didn't know why and something kept telling him he shouldn't investigate further for once in his life.

Sherlock was not allowed to speak to John before the jump. The plan was _so so_ complicated and structured he could _not_ risk John's safety. Mrs Hudson's safety. It was madness, the prospect of hitting the concrete for real hunting him the two years he spent away. He didn't _think_ it through. Or he did, but he didn't _feel_ it through. He didn't consider _sentiment._ And it hit him on the pit of that rooftop tha maybe

  


_maybe_ he should have told John about the plan or

  


he should have left a letter or

  


he should have told Mycroft to keep an eye on John.

  


And after two years of six new languages and dialects, just before english started tasting sour on his tongue, he was not allowed to look at John.

  


He tried to _to to to_

_to_

_he tried_ to be delicate. He even dressed up. He thought that after two years John was going to welcome him.

  


Two years of runaway thaught him one of the most ridicolous and yet important lessons of his life: comfortable silence is overrated. And what stood between them was not comfortable. It was not silence. It was loss and mourning and he didn't think it through.

  


He thought

  


that John was going to wait for him. He gave for granted that John _knew_ he wasn't really going to jump off that building.

He miscalculated.

  


His wrong conclusions hurt John the most. Hurt him with the weight of a gun pressed coldly between the doctor's tongue and the soft roof of his mouth. Like an empty bottle crushed on the floor and drunk steps walking over the sharp glass.

  


Like a square-in-the-jaw punch in the middle of the crowded room of an elite restaurant. And like a bloody nose in a dirty pizza place.

  


And John _knew_ he was going to forgive him sooner or later and he _hated it._

Because it was going to work, he almost made it work.

  


He did everything right. « _You did everything right, John. You chose the best way to go on with your life._ » even fucking Ella told him but

  


but

  


he felt so stupid. He gave up so easily and so

  


predictably.

  


Sherlock thought too high of him.

  


He gave up so easily, swallowed that miserable act like a medicine for his rampant depression. Not even fucking Anderson believed that shit. But John did. He _moved_ on.

  


He moved _out_ of the flat.

  


He left Mrs Hudson behind. He moved out with no notice, packing his things up while holding breathes to avoid the smell of home to adhere too firmly to the walls of his lungs.

He refrained from taking something to remind him of Sherlock. He almost took that creepy skull off the fireplace. He considered taking one of those weird petri dishes with some kind of hair or dust or _god knows what_ in them.

  


He didn't touch a thing in the end, just carried his miserable half empty bags down the stairs and into a taxi.

  


And when Sherlock appeared with a pricy bottle of champagne in his hands at his table while the biggest mistake of John's life looked at them speechless, he felt like a half-empty saggy old bag carrying socks and dust.

  


And the first time Lestrade called Sherlock for a consult and John tagged along, everything was out to the light of the sun in half a second. Everyone was watching them with that relieved mask on the face, an awkward attempt of a applause dying where it started.

  


And Sherlock tried to talk to him, get him in the game as he used to. Just like those two years never passed and it was just another boring case after a relaxing chinese leftovers night. And John felt so _guilty_ because it was just _right._

  


He felt in the right place. Not in the surgery, not in the house with Mary. But at _home._

  


It felt like home in a dark, smelly, dirty and bloody alley. And he was so angry with himself for putting himself in this situation and with Sherlock because _fuck Sherlock._ He pretended to be dead for two years.

  


And everytime he thought he forgave him, the anger kicked back harder.

  


And at some point Sherlock gave up. He saw John's fists balling up, the thin layer of sweat covering his upper lip. The little head tilt.

He saw the anger, the resentment, the hatred looks that made his nape tickle whenever he gave his back to the man.

  


He gave up, because _maybe_

  


maybe he misunderstood. And he knew he couldn't trust his own feelings, because he lacked experience. He could not get himself to look John in the eyes, fearing details _details details details_ he was trying to avoid. And his steps grew faster to keep distance between them, observations became silent and private and suddenly

  


John was not on the crime scene anymore.

He was not _in_ the scene anymore.

  


Again.

  


And he started preferring the stinging company of needles, the consuming friendship of improvised tourniquets. And those blue and purple spots looked like they earned their place, like they belonged there like bruises from torture and stitches blindly applied. He deserved it, both the exciting highs and the suicidal downhills of the aftermath.

  


He deserved it all. And it tasted like old times, like a burning house and the crumbling future. Like a broken teeth bleeding out. Like Mycroft coming to rescue him in a dumpster and and tying him up while waiting for the ambulance because he couldn't stop hitting himself from shame.

  


It was like life before he met John. A bit less romantically, like life before it stopped being boring.


	6. Love is five bleeding crescents on your skin.

 

* * *

 

 

John's blog is stuck on their last case, it was two years ago. ~~Things happened but _they were not meant for the public to read._~~

 

 

 

They are all sitting in the same room, the pale light of the kitchen giving the already heavy situation a sparkle of _gloomy_. Tea has gone cold in Sherlock's mug, Mycroft has given up the staring contest as his brother refuses to look up at him. Sherlock is studying the wooden table's pattern, pupils running between dark spots and lighter lines.

 

He doesn't hear a thing. He doesn't want to hear a thing. He can _feel_ John's engine rumbling in his blond head, metal gears picking out the words he desperately wants to ask. This was going to happen. He tried hard to be invisible. Maybe he tried too hard. He didn't mean to drawn attention.

 

His hands are not the only ones that are shaking. And John's steps are not as steady as he thought they would be. John doesn't smell the same, he doesn't even talk the same way as he did before.

 

Before.

 

_Shut up._

 

«Do you think you're going to ask me questions or may I consider myself free?» his voice is only slightly annoyed, just the right bit of annoyance he used to put to piss off John.

But this is not _that_ John.

«If you don't keep that ass on that chair I'll give you a reason to need morphine.»

 

John is definitely angry. But it's not anger making his hands shake like a balled up napkin thrown over a fireplace. The man can't stand still, fists clenching and unclenching and fingers tapping tapping _tapping_

 

Loud thump against the table, skin on skin, _same_ shaking hands. _Different_ poisons.

« _Will you stop that?_ » and he feels like his palm will burn if he doesn't remove it from over John's hand but somehow he can't because

 

because

 

it's been months since he last touched John. On purpose, being conscious of his actions. Not that touching was a recurrent thing in their _dynamic,_ but for sure it was something that always left a _mark_.

 

The first time they met after Sherlock's death, John went for his throat. Not just once,and rough enough to leave him with a busted lip and all that. And he knows it was something he should have anticipated, but still it stings like a splinter under his fingernail.

 

«And is there a reason you need a drink every two hours, or is it just bad habits taking my place?» and at that Mycroft just leaves, because he knows where this is going to end. He stands up without a word, umbrella tapping against the floor and towards the door.

John watches him as he exits the kitchen with the corner of his eyes, head not lifting, chin tucked against his chest. He needs to clear his throat once,

twice, before he is able to speak. «First of all, you have absolutely no right to come here an- »

 

«And what? Stating the truth? Please, John. You are shaking, your hands can't stand still for a moment. Your body is betraying you.» he spits it out like an insult, but his chest hurts because

 

because

John is drinking again and he shouldn't be.

 

«You are one talking! How _dare you_ tell me how to cope with _this,_ when it's all your fucking fault!»

 

and

 

It hits home. Not close to home, but right in the heart of it. And John doesn't meant it but

but

_but_

 

«John, as I already explained to you it was necessary. I did not mean for _this_ »and he makes a vague gesture in the air between them, hand flying weakly and resting on the table top « to happen and affect you so much.»

 

_keep it cool. Stay calm. Behave._

 

«You do realise this is not that simple, right? You can't choose who is going to hurt and how your actions will affect everybody's life, Sherlock! It's not how it works. You cann- » deep breath, eyes shut. A low growl scratch the back of his throat.

 

This is the John he used to be. Before Sherlock, before returning to London among civilians. The Army doctor with anger managment issues. The soldier with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The one who visited a therapist twice a week to avoid shooting a screaming homeless man on the other side of the road and to stop shoving himself on the ground in a protection position everytime a car's engine would fail and let out a loud bang.

 

Sherlock sees it, of course he does. And he smirks sadly for half a second before guilt punches him in the guts.

 

«You cannot expect everyone to just _roll with it._ We attended your funeral.» a choke.

 

He knows. _He knows._ He didn't expect everyone to accept him with open arms.

 

He only hoped John would.

 

«I am sorry.» he feels the need to scrub his hands with hot water and dish soap.

 

«Well, yeah. But sorry won't make things right.» the doctor rubs his forehead, fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. He looks so tired. «I know you are sorry. But why on earth- » small crack in his voice, steadiness falters and fails «-why did you not tell me, or anyone really, about this. What's happening, Sherlock?»

 

«There was no point.»

 

«But there is!» as soon as John's tone raises Sherlock flinches slightly, straightening his back against the back of the chair, pushing himself far from him. «Sherlock, don't shut me off again. You can't just-» he sighs and plops back in his chair.

 

This is tiring. It feels like breathing water. Licking mud from the corners of the basement because it was all he could get in there. He wishes he could just tell John.

 

Why is it difficult? Why can't he?

 

A phone rings, sudden and loud and it makes the detective jumps out of his skin. John's eyes pity him, sadness washing over his face as he reaches for his pocket. He eyes the caller, lets out a deep sigh. Again. «It's Mary. Just-wait a second.» and he's out of the kitchen, a weird new pitched voice answering the phone, sweet words of nothing trying to calm the woman down.

 

Sherlock empties his cold tea in one gulp, bile creeping up his throat and stinging his tongue.

_Mary._

She is real, she is alive. It's not a nightmare or a drug-fueled hallucination. Mary exists in John's world.

 

He can't feel his body starting to _gently_ rock back and forth, his own organism trying to shut down panic before it's too late.

What's not gentle is the raw picking of nails on the skin of his forearms.

 

Could this get worse?

Is John leaving? Why is John drinking again? Why Mary? Why him? What is happening? Why is it happening?

 

«'sure, okay. See you later, love you too.»

 

 

the word _love_ has the shape of tiny crescents craved in Sherlock's skin.

 

 

John stares at him for a moment, gaze darting between Sherlock's face and his arm,

 

and closes the distance between them with three steps. «THIS IS WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT!» he anxiously dabs the blood with a used paper napkin, crumbs of pastries falling on the floor. Sherlock's mouth feels dry. «Sherlock, you can't do this. You can't be alone, please let us help you.»

 

_You can't be alone._ «Couple of months of torture taught me how to clean up after myself.»

 

John's motions stop. Sharp breath. «Will you tell me what happened? Is this why you're so...»

 

silence.

 

So _what?_

 

«I am sorry I am a little bit _touchy and jumpy_ , John. It seems to be a very recurrent trait in _abuse_ survivors.» John looks at him with wide eyes, the detective's voice so frantic and agitated it almost sent Baskerville's flashbacks in John's head.

 

_Abuse survivors._ So polite, so composed. He sounds so harsh yet so casual, as if he's been in a relationship with a woman that used to finish his favourite ice cream instead of being tortured physically and mentally for _months in fucking Serbia._

 

«That's not what I meant. Sherlock, we need to have this conversation now.»

 

_Thump. Th-thump. Thump._

 

«I understand you've been through hell. I know what it feels like.» he absently rubs the bad shoulder, Sherlock can almost see the nasty scar under the shirt. «But I had therapy and...friends and it got better.»

 

At that, he does snort. « _Friends!_ And who exactly? You were a depressed veteran who drunk himself to sleep. You didn't have _friends._ »

 

_Don't listen to me, John. It's the drug talking._

 

«No, you're right. I had therapy, which didn't do much on its own. But therapy didn't cure my limp, did it?» and he smiles so softly, eyes rimmed pink.

 

_It's the drugs thinking, John please don't make me talk._

 

«Listen, I know it's shit. But you have to let me in. I did it with you and it helped.»

 

This reminds Sherlock of the first chase after the mad cabby. That walking cane gone long forgotten in a nook. He needs to shake his head to clear his mind.

 

«It's not-it's not the same thing, I am afraid. A-and your limp is back anyway.» he's fighting the urge to pull at his curls, to hit his head until a bruise appears. He wants out, he wants John to leave him here and

 

now

 

except he doesn't.

 

«Shh...please don't start that again. Breathe.»

 

John's voice is distant, so soft that he might be dreaming again. He can't tell if it's _his_ John talking, or real life John talking. He doesn't know if his Mind Palace is failing him again, he can't see the bricks landing and turning into dust and walls crumbling down but

 

he _knows._

 

He heard John. At his tombstone. He heard him. He saw his tears. He _remembers._

It's all coming too fast before his eyes, words and images and memories and sounds and smells and

 

 

 

stop.

 

 

 

 

«What?»

 

« _Keep your eyes fixed on me._ » he sees colour draining out of John's expression.

 

« _You machine._ » John told him that, he remembers. « _Alone protects me, John._ »

 

The doctor stares at him, mouth open and hands stuck mid-air. «Sherlock, you're making no sense. Calm down, breathe in.»

 

«Alone _protects_ me, John!» he's trying to make sense, why can't John understand? He is trying so hard, the words just come out wrong. «It protects you!»

 

Alone. No error. Human error. _Caring is not an advantage._ «I lost the war, John. I made a mistake, I am sorry.»

 

Are these low and highs of the drugs mix? Is this Sherlock not being able to traduce his unstoppable train of thoughts?

 

Delayed Echolalia.

 

John knows it yet it scares him how misplaced Sherlock looks. His moves are frantic, as if he's trying very hard to make a point but his words just...don't match. He's _trying_ , he sees desperation in his blown pupils and John feels guilty because he _knows_ these symptoms, but he doesn't want to consider them symptoms because Sherlock would _hate_ it.

 

«Sherloc-come on mate, breathe. It's okay, let's calm down.»

 

but this is not what Sherlock wants and needs! Can't John understand? _Why_ doesn't he understand? His facial muscles hurt, brows furrowed so hard and nose scrunched up with the sudden disgust coming from the awfully dirty carpet.

«I'm not stupid! I'm not stupid!»

 

_Sherlock is not stupid._ « _You're not stupid, 'Lock. They just don't get you. I do._ » _Mycroft is smoothing down his shirt, tucking it in his trousers and straightening the collar._ « _They are idiots. Remember,_ » _he looks his little brother in the eyes, even if they're stuck somewhere on the wallpaper patterns._ « _they can't get to you, if you don't care about them. Okay?_ » _and he nods, because Mycroft is always right. Mycroft always gets him, even if he just ran out of the room during their cousin's wedding banquet screaming because he couldn't stand the awful stench of multiple dishes in a single room._ « _They're goldfishes._ » _he says and sniffles, rubs the back of his hand under his running nose. Mycroft smiles, nods._ « _Goldfishes._ »

 

 

«Sherlock! Jesus Christ, stop. I'm sorry, I know you're not stupid. Calm down.» he grips steadly one of his agitated hands, guides his point finger and middle finger to his own pulse. «See? You're here, I'm here, we're fine. You're fine.» and this time it takes mere seconds for Sherlock to stop his brain from cracking his skull open and run out of the front door.

 

Hands. Hands. Heart. Veins. Blood.

 

John.

He's keeping up a cold facade, red rimmed eyes giving away the mess going on behind his lids. But he's successfully shutting up, tongue tied and brain silent. He can do this for John, he can calm down. It's alright. He's fine. _It's all fine._

 

«They held me prisoner for weeks, the physical abuse wasn't as though as the psychological. They held me captive in a dark room. There was no light. I could barely sleep.» he smirks a little, his Mind Palace John scoffing him because Sherlock's sleep schedule isn't really adequate anyway. «I...I thought I was going to die there. I didn't want to die.»

 

«I'm sorry, Sherlock.» an unspoken _but_ lingers in the room.

 

John's watch is ticking loudly, Sherlock's heart is trying to catch up with the rythm. He really tried to catch up with the rythm of this new life.

 

He tried to accomodate John's new _companionship_ , his new job and habits. He tried to bury the fear under the carpet with the dust of months of postponed cleanings. He wanted it to work.

 

«You have to promise you won't take anything from now on.» John's up again, wandering around the flat with the trash bin under his arm, quick hand throwing away needles and ashtrays from every surface. «You have to promise me, Sherlock. Because I can't be here twenty four hours a day to babysit you. Plus, you hate it when I babysit you.» It should sound like humor, but it stings his eardrums.

 

«I don't need to promise, I can stop. I could have stopped weeks ago if I wanted to.»

 

«Sure, right. Then find a way to _want it_ because I don't want to answer Mrs Hudson's call when she finds you dead on the floor.»

 

Because this is what it is.

It's a death wish. John looks at the flat with a fist in his throat, every breathe taken stops midway. Sherlock would never try to kill himself. He would never, right? Sure, his lifestyle is not _appropriate_ in the slightest, but he doesn't want to die.

 

He needs to repeat it quite few times before he's able to say it out loud. «Have you tried to kill yourself?» and Sherlock looks at him baffled, mouth open and shocked.

 

«Yes, because surviving torture was too tiring and I needed a vacancy. What's on your mind, John? How can you possibly think I would ev-»

 

«I don't know! I don't know, Sherlock! But you don't exactly look healthy, do you now?» you don't even look alive. He doesn't say that.

There's an awkward pause, silence thick with consequences of the next words. Possibilities are hanging from the roof of the room like festive decorations.

Sherlock keeps his head low. Right, left. Couch, sofa. Fireplace, desk. Window, lamp. His eyes can't stand still, scanning the room but looking at the possibile scenaries playing like old movies in his head.

When he finally speaks, another mood swing bursts in the conversation with a low, caring tone of voice. «Did you?»

 

Two words, and John needs two bottles.

Did he?

 

One glass for the first time he bought a Scotch bottle while going back home.

 

Did he try to kill himself?

 

One glass for the first bottle he emptied in the new flat.

 

Does he wish he did?

 

One glass in memory of the DVD Greg bought him with that poor excuse Sherlock recited so well, the reasons he was not going to attend his birthday dinner that night.

 

Did he _want_ to end his life?

 

One glass for every time Ella asked about Sherlock and he felt trapped in a trench in fucking Afghanistan.

 

One bottle for every night he spent up late with memories tormenting his sleep, flashabcks digesting the food so he could easily pour it out in the toilet.

 

«What?» he blinks but doesn't dare to look Sherlock in the face.

 

«Have you tried to kill yourself, John?»

 

«No.» which is not entirely a lie, because he didn't try. He failed from the start.

 

«Don't lie to me, you know there's no use in it.»

 

He didn't _try_ to kill himself. He did _want_ to, he was on the point of doing it. But tried means he failed an attempt, right?

 

«I might change my question for a clearer understanding of the situation. Have you ever been on the verge of killing yourself?» his hands are trembling, hidden at the bottom of his gown pokets. John is not answering, he has his soldier mask on. Shoulders straight, arms down and tense, feet steady. Eyes glassy. Gaze distant. He sniffles.

 

_oh._

 

«John.»

 

but he looks on the side, avoids the detective's face. But Sherlock sees the redness of his eyes, the quivering of his bottom lip. The way he sucks it in and bites down with the front teeth. John doesn't cry. He never cries.

 

«John. I am- »

 

«I did. I did want to die. Put a gun in my mouth. Thought i would be brave enough. Guess I am not.» he smiles at the floor, sniffles again. This is his defense mode, short answers, brick wall between them. A barricade. A trench. He's hurting.

 

«I am sorry.»

_this is war._

«I know you are.»

_sentiments are not an advantage._

«I apologise.»

_stop._

«I-yeah, I forgive you.» John's a little bit back, one quick look darting on Sherlock's face.

«Don't.»

 


End file.
